Gamebreaker
by Aiffe
Summary: Bilbo plays a game of cat and mouse with the Elvenking, and the king both wins and loses.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Finally crossposting this to FFN, with intent to continue it. Follow my ficblog on tumblr, forbitten-fruit, for updates of the illustrated version!

* * *

Bilbo Baggins slipped through the gracefully curving stone halls of the elvish palace like a ghost, searching for anything that could help his friends. He kept his ears open for bits of gossip, and his eyes open for side doors or back doors or really any kind of door that wasn't the main one, though he'd had no luck with that just yet. He'd only been tripped over once, though luckily the poor fellow seemed to have had a bit too much wine, and wouldn't be believed.

And so, his creepings brought him to a chamber he hadn't been to before, sneaking in behind a servant, and getting shut in before he realized what was happening. His heart thudded in his chest so loudly he worried someone would hear. This wasn't where he wanted to be at all. It was the king's private chambers.

As might be expected in such a place, there was the king himself. His simpler gown suggested he was at rest, though he sat in a chair, and Bilbo's first thought was that he must be awake. Tiptoeing a bit closer, he saw the king's face was unfocused, relaxed and vacantly staring. Was this how elves slept? He had to admit he didn't have a lot of experience with elves. There was a bed, but maybe it was for other things. He really didn't want to dwell on that thought.

But—maybe he'd gotten careless, lost in his thoughts, and let out a breath too hard—the king was very much not asleep. That face, graceful and cold as the stone halls he lived in, inclined towards him, tilted slightly. "Yes?" the king said to what must have seemed to be an empty room, seeming puzzled, a bit uncertain. Bilbo held his breath.

"I tire of this game. Speak," the king said, this time with more confidence. Bilbo hoped he was bluffing, but had to breathe a bit eventually. Perhaps the king would start to fear he was losing his mind, if he kept talking to empty rooms. He'd feel a little sorry for him, if the king weren't holding all his friends captive.

"You try my patience," the king said, and he seemed to have honed on his position. Those wide, terrible eyes bored through him, unfocused yet with purpose. "I don't know what rumors you've heard, but I'm no fool. I could cut you in half by the sound of your breathing." His hand moved to his sword, and Bilbo decided it was time for a new strategy.

"O king! O…o magnificent one!" Bilbo squeaked, and the king frowned in consternation. "O mighty and exquisite king of the golden hall! Forgive me for trespassing here, I was just…."

"Who _are_ you," the king said, as Bilbo had run out of ideas and trailed off.

"I am…I am…he who walks in shadow—not in the sinister way, just the sort of hidden one—I've come over hills and under them…."

"Never mind the riddles," the king cut in. "Perhaps I would be more entertained by them if they were not in my bed chamber. _Why_ are you here, he who walks in shadows, but not in the sinister way?"

"I…I was hungry?" Bilbo ventured sheepishly.

The king gestured at the table he sat at, on which there was a platter set with cheese, wine, bread, grapes, and apples. "By all means, then. Who am I to refuse such a modest request?"

Bilbo hesitated. He was, in fact, quite hungry, and his stomach had already gotten started when he looked at the food, but the idea of sitting right in front of the Elvenking and shoving food in his invisible mouth did not suit him much.

"I haven't had time to poison it," the king pointed out, "as I hardly expected your arrival." He sliced a bit of cheese without looking at it, and ate it.

Bilbo went to the chair across from the king at the small table, which only seated two. The seat of the chair was wood, and the rest wrought from some sort of metal. It was intricate and beautiful, but also too high for him, and as he discovered when he tried to pull it back a bit, quite heavy. It took a few moments of scuffling, and a hideous scrape of the chair's metal legs on the stone floor, before he finally clambered up. The king, at least, seemed mildly entertained by all this, and gestured again at the food.

He'd just carved off a hunk of cheese and some bread, and was setting in on it, (because regardless of what the king meant to do with him, he could at least face it on a full stomach, it was a very hobbit way of thinking) when the king said something, a question by the tone of it, in a language he couldn't understand. Elvish, most likely. Or whatever elves spoke.

"Mm sorry?" Bilbo managed, around a wad of bread.

The Elvenking spoke again, just as incomprehensibly, but with a sort of different flavor. Neither of them sounded anything like the bits of Khudzul he'd heard from the dwarves. Poor Bilbo had hardly thought there were this many languages in the _world_. "Sorry, I really have no idea what you're saying," Bilbo said. "Just the Common Tongue for me, plain old tongue for plain old folk."

"Indeed?" the king said. "What manner of folk would you be, anyway?"

"Well, uh, that's…that's a complicated sort of question," Bilbo said. He didn't like to give any sort of information away, and felt quite protective of his home besides.

The king poured him a glass of wine, and pushed it towards him.

"Oh no really, I couldn't possibly. But thank you," Bilbo managed.

"I insist," the king said. "I can hardly make out your words with all that dry bread in your mouth. Please."

He had a point, and seeing as it was the only beverage on hand, Bilbo conceded and took a sip, then relaxing at the mild flavor, another. Like the bread and cheese, which he'd barely been able to enjoy under the circumstances, the wine was exquisite, bringing to mind sun-drenched fields and autumn air. He was no stranger to wine, but this went to his head a bit more than he'd expected, for all it tasted so mild.

"I mean you no harm," the king said, "after all, I didn't seek you out at all, it was you who came into my bedchamber uninvited. Most kings would assume you were an assassin and cut you down without a word, but I gave you a chance to speak…and if you are an assassin, you are a strange one. I have shown you hospitality, though let us be truthful here, no one comes into a king's bedchamber looking for a meal. Perhaps I would have been more understanding if I'd found you in my pantry, little one who walks in shadows, but not in the sinister way. I believe you will find all this to be more than reasonable. But it is also reasonable that I should require answers, and straightforward ones. Who are you, what is your name, what manner of creature are you, and why have you come here?"

Bilbo did in fact have to admit that this was rather reasonable. He'd seen terrifying things in his journey, but elves were not orcs, and aside from being taken prisoner, no one had been mistreated. As he could hardly imagine they'd committed any crimes, perhaps they would all be let go, and put this misunderstanding behind them. And besides, he'd never known anyone with food this good or wine this potent to be evil. "Well, er, your Kingliness," Bilbo began, for he had no idea how to address a king—there was Thorin, of course, but he'd always just called him Thorin—"I think I can answer those. My name is Bilbo Baggins, and that's more or less who I am too. I'm not a creature at all, I'm a hobbit."

"A hobbit?" the king repeated. "I am not familiar with that name. What do others call you?"

"Men call us halflings," he said. "I don't know what others call us, we don't often meet other folk."

"A halfling!" the king exclaimed. "I thought those were only in stories for children."

Bilbo laughed, possibly finding this funnier due to the wine. "That's what we say about elves."

"I would not believe you, if it were not for the fact that you're much too light and quiet to be a dwarf, and too short to be an elf."

"Ah," Bilbo said, at the reference to his height. "You can see me?" He had rather worried about how his food looked when he chewed, being invisible and all.

"As clearly as I see the bread in your hand," the king said. "Why…what have you heard?"

"Mm? Oh, nothing," Bilbo said, eating more bread and washing it down with wine. With his hands under the table, he tried taking his ring off, and his sudden appearance seemed to make no impression on the king at all, his expression placid as a lake on a windless day. Giving the ring a dubious shake, he tried putting it back on. Still nothing.

"This still does not answer the question of why you are here," the king pressed, pouring another glass of wine, which Bilbo gratefully accepted.

"Well, I was just traveling, on my way to Lake-Town," Bilbo said, figuring this was true enough, no need to mention where he intended to go after that, or his traveling companions. "I had some trouble with the giant spiders, and ended up quite lost and hungry. I slipped in with some of your guard, not meaning to trouble you, planning to be right on my way…but I haven't had occasion to slip out again, you see."

"Indeed. Is that all?"

"Yes?" Bilbo squeaked, unconvincingly.

The king's terrible gaze was on him, wide and empty as the open sky. He wasn't sure why he was thinking that way, terribly florid metaphors…the wine, of course. He took another gulp, to calm his nerves. It struck him suddenly that dwarves live a long time, and if tales are true, elves live forever, but a hobbit could easily waste his entire life in a dungeon like the ones here, old and forgotten in a blink of an eye. He didn't want to die like that.

"There's something you're not telling me."

For a moment Bilbo wondered if this was some kind of elf magic, making him desperately want to tell the king everything—the biscuits he'd filched as a small hobbit boy (and continued to filch, when he was no longer so small…) or every time he'd thrown a rock at a squirrel. But fear for one's life and too much wine can accomplish as much as any magic. And worse still, he was afraid to lie or omit the truth, because he feared the king knew more than he let on already. No one had ever been able to see through his ring's magic before. What else could those blue eyes see through? Could the king even now be rifling through his thoughts like the Sackville-Bagginses through an inheritance?

"How can you see me?" Bilbo asked at last. He had to know what he was dealing with.

"What do you mean?"

"Well just, er," Bilbo stammered. "Usually people don't notice I'm even there."

"People," the king repeated. "All people?"

"Of course. Until you."

The king's expression darkened. His hand went to Bilbo's wrist, preventing him from running. He wore his special ring on that hand, and reflexively clenched his fist to protect it. The ring was just under the king's long, pale arm, but he didn't look at it.

"How, exactly, did you sneak in with my guard?" the king asked. "They are trained better than that."

"They didn't see me," Bilbo said, and tried to twist his hand free, but the king's grip was like stone.

"Because you were invisible," the king said, and Bilbo didn't see the point in contesting it. "And you've been having me for a fool this whole time."

"I haven't been having you for anything, aside from brunch," Bilbo protested. "I…I assumed you knew! You saw through it, unless it's broken…." It didn't seem broken, and he still felt half in the shadow world, but the king hadn't reacted at all to him pulling it off, so perhaps it wasn't just the king who could see him.

"An invisible halfling," the king said contemptuously. "And I suppose the little green men singing under the toadstools told you to come here for afternoon tea. There are things that walk invisibly in shadow, my little friend Bilbo Baggins, but they are not halflings, and they do not mean my kingdom well."

Bilbo was getting to be quite afraid at the king's dark tone. It was evident he thought he was some kind of servant of evil. It might be better to just come clean and be thrown in prison with the dwarves, at this rate. "I _am_ a hobbit, sir, a halfling if you will, and I'm not usually invisible. I don't even know why it's stopped working," he babbled. "It must have run out of magic or something, I don't know, but I'm just a regular old hobbit now, and I don't mean your kingdom anything except to wish it a good day…."

"It?" the king repeated. "What's stopped working?"

"Well, the..the thing that was making me invisible…." Bilbo tried to wriggle out of the king's grip again, getting increasingly worried now that the subject was turning to his precious ring, which he still felt powerfully protective of, even if it had failed him. "You…you don't want it anyway, since it's broken, and it wouldn't fit a great elf like you, much too small and plain, only fit for a hobbit really…."

"Your masters in the south gave you something to help you spy on me, didn't they? I can help you, you know. They must have been cruel to you…even a creature such as yourself would want to escape that. I can protect you from them. No one else can do that. But you must cooperate with me. What have you learned, what did they give you, and what did you come here to find?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, I've never been to the south, I'm from over the Misty Mountains, and I don't have any master. I came here for food, I've learned that your wine is stronger than it seems, and as for…as for _that_, no one gave it to me, I _won _it, fair and square. I found it, so it's mine," Bilbo said, the panic in his voice turning to passion on the subject of his ring. Fear of being killed or imprisoned had almost entirely been replaced with terror that the king would want his ring. It wasn't _fair_, he had so many jewels already, he had no business taking a poor hobbit's legitimately owned possessions, and….

His thoughts paused, a new one big enough to push all the others out of his mind beginning to form, as he looked into the king's clear blue eyes. His ring wasn't broken after all, was it? As well as I see the bread in your hand indeed—if he'd known it was a riddle, he'd have solved it faster!

"You're blind," Bilbo blurted out. "That's why you didn't know I was invisible. You're…you're as blind as my great uncle Fastolph."

The king's mouth was set in a firm, thin line. "And now you know a bit too much."

Bilbo realized how poorly he'd played that, and cursed the wine silently. "I…I can be discreet…."

"As can I," the king said. "You've guessed one of my secrets, but it seems I've had less luck with yours. There are no strongholds of evil west of the Misty Mountains, but in the heart of those mountains some very strange things are said to dwell…." The king's free hand moved to Bilbo's cheek hesitantly, touching the soft, ruddy flesh, the thick, curly hair falling over it. "A halfling," he mused, evidently convinced that Bilbo was no orc, at least. "Tell me about what you found, and where, and how you won it."

"I…I found it on the ground, just lying there. A gold ring. I know that sounds…and then I played a game of riddles with some strange creature, and barely escaped with my life. And it's saved my life, from those spiders, I'd be dead without it. It's mine," he insisted, "not given to me by anyone, not to spy on you or anyone else."

"A gold ring?" the king repeated with interest. "Such things were forged…well beyond your ancestors' memory, most likely. They were made by my kin, and are ours by right. Perhaps one of the minor ones, a practice in the craft, long ago lost to the ages…."

"Look, I don't care who made it," Bilbo said, finding his courage burning hot once more under the terror, as it had with the giant spiders, "and if one of your kin didn't think it was worth keeping, I'd say it's forfeit. Finders keepers, and all that."

"If they lost it, they lost their lives in the bargain," the king said. "In any case, even such a minor ring is dangerous in the hands of someone unskilled. I fear for your safety if you continue to use it—these are powers beyond your ken."

"I managed just fine until you came along," Bilbo grumbled.

"It's elven-made, and not meant for other folk," the king insisted. Greed had taken hold of him, showing on his face. "You will return it to me, now." His hand slid down Bilbo's wrist, to his fingers, searching, and Bilbo began to struggle in earnest.

The king was bigger than him, certainly, and had an unexpected strength for his sparse frame, but he was not all-powerful, and desperation to save his precious ring gave Bilbo strength, enough to give the Elvenking trouble. In the heat of the moment, Bilbo tried to draw Sting, but the king, perhaps hearing the scrape of it leaving its sheath, twisted the dagger away from him before he could strike, turning it so the point narrowly missed Bilbo's face.

"Another thing of elven make," the king said, keeping the blade trained on Bilbo so that he didn't dare run. "How many of our treasures have you pilfered?"

"That is also mine fairly, unless it was a gift from your kin to the troll I took it from," Bilbo said.

"Spoken like a professional looter of corpses—and I have no doubt you'd find yourself entitled to my crown once you'd done what you planned with this little knife of yours."

Tossing the blade aside, he again seized Bilbo's hand and attempted to remove the ring from his finger. Bilbo kicked and bit and screamed and cursed without any sense of dignity left about him, making such a fuss that just as the ring was pulled from his hand, the door burst open with several of the king's guard at the ready.

The king was standing over Bilbo, who had curled up on the floor in misery, his hand closed around the ring. He turned to his surprised guard. "It is under control. Leave us," he said, and when they hovered a moment longer, staring at Bilbo's wretched self, he said again, "Leave!"

"Give it back," Bilbo groaned. "It's mine. Mine, I found it. You have no right, no right…."

Ignoring him, the king returned to his seat, and opened his hand, exposing the ring in his palm. Bilbo lunged at it one last time, but the king sent him reeling back with a kick. The ring expanded in the king's hand like a lump of butter melting on a hot griddle, becoming elf-sized rather than hobbit-sized. The king ran his fingers over it and gasped, his expression a mix of wonder and fear, his unseeing eyes very wide. "Impossible," he murmured. "No, no, it can't be…tell me how you found it, _every_ detail."

"I told you," Bilbo said, through thick tears, choking back a sob. "I found it, on the ground. It's mine, it's mine…."

"It seems to have had quite a hold on you," the king said. "But I believe you now that you were not sent by any enemy—there is no one in all the world who would give this to you, if it is what I fear and hope…."

"What is it?" Bilbo asked, in spite of his distress. He'd loved his strange little magic ring, but hardly expected it was something that could frighten a king.

"Nothing that concerns you." The king laughed, a strange sound, beautiful yet somehow sinister. "You couldn't comprehend what you had the means to do with this." He paused, considering, and gave Bilbo his dagger back. "Keep it, a proper gift from those who made it this time. You're free to go, and yes, you may have all the food you can carry."

Bilbo took Sting and considered one last desperate attack, but decided he still wanted to live and sheathed it. He realized that though he'd hoped for his freedom rather than being locked up or killed, it didn't do him much good without the dwarves, and without his magic ring, he had little hope of sneaking back to free them. There really wasn't any point in going to Erebor alone—the best he could hope for was a safe trip back over the Misty Mountains, if that dreadful pale orc didn't get to him first.

"I…haven't been completely honest with you," he began. "I did come over the Misty Mountains, but I didn't come alone. The dwarves in your dungeons are my companions, and I'd be lost without them."

The king smiled slightly. "I have known that since you told me your name. My guards are not deaf, and I've been told they ask each other if anyone's heard from Bilbo."

"Then why did you make me think you thought I'd been sent by some kind of evil?" Bilbo protested.

"To see if you'd tell me the truth, for one. And for another, I still thought you might be—and the dwarves with you. There have been dwarves that served the Enemy in the past, and who knows how far Durin's line may have fallen in exile?"

"But you don't think that of us now?" Bilbo asked. He had, after all, tried to stab a king, something he never imagined would be part of his life story when he left the Shire.

"If you are, then your incompetence is heartening," the king said. "Go on, I will inform the guards you are my guest here. You may wait until I make my decision on your friends; I may allow them to join you."

Bilbo took a hesitant step towards the door, still feeling the awful tug of his precious ring in the hands of another. Spite took hold of him, and he turned over his shoulder, saying, "What if I were to tell your little secret, since you stole my ring and won't return it?"

The king laughed again, and it made Bilbo feel no better this time. "It doesn't matter now. Tell the whole world, if they'll believe you. They'll underestimate me at their peril."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Friendly reminder of illustrations for every chapter and first updates over at tumblr ficblog forbitten-fruit!

* * *

"Let us not waste each other's time," King Thranduil said, leaning back in his great throne.

"Agreed," Thorin huffed. "You've wasted enough of mine already. With your leave, I'll just be on my way."

"But we have not spoken yet."

"I have nothing more to say. You've made your designs on my treasures all too clear, as if you deserved a reward for harassing and detaining my people."

"Your treasure?" Thranduil repeated, an almost mad lilt to his voice. "I wonder, would you know a treasure if it were right under that large nose of yours? Would you even have the intelligence to comprehend a treasure greater than gold or mithril, worth more than entire kingdoms?"

Thorin frowned. What was he getting at? That description, was it the Arkenstone? No, no, something more precious…. He thought at once of his nephews, and stiffened. "What treasure do you speak of; say it plainly."

"I've caught your little accomplice, Bilbo Baggins," Thranduil said.

As disheartening as that news was for his already slim chances of escape, Thorin did not catch the meaning in that. It sounded almost like a threat, but if Thranduil wanted to play that dirty, any idiot would know his nephews were the surest way to his heart. Unless he somehow believed he and Bilbo were…_.What did you tell him, you incorrigible rascal_, he thought, wondering if Bilbo might have thought to improve his status as prisoner with a few embellishments.

"What do you want with Bilbo?" Thorin asked at length.

Thranduil leaned in closer. "It doesn't trouble you at all that we've met? Our conversation was…very informative."

The elf was clearly gloating like a cat with a dead bird, yet Thorin still couldn't make sense of it. It almost sounded like Bilbo was some kind of spy. He considered how well he knew Bilbo, and what reasons he had to trust him. He'd come on Gandalf's sterling recommendation…maybe he'd been wrong to trust Gandalf. Now that he thought about it, it _was_ odd that Gandalf should suddenly vanish just as they entered Mirkwood, almost as if delivering them into the hands of the Elvenking. He could just see it: Gandalf and King Thranduil plotting together, dividing their share of his treasure between them, perhaps even laughing at how easily he'd been baited by a few pretty words, the promise of _home_. Thorin settled his weight into the stone, bristling with resentment.

"There's still the dragon to be reckoned with," Thorin said in a low growl. "I hope he finishes what his kin started with you."

But King Thranduil would not be baited as he was last time. He leaned back, an insufferable smirk on his face. "What makes you think I care for anything in that filthy hole?" He toyed at one of his rings, spinning it around his finger, caressing it. Thorin had noted all of the king's jewelry in their last meeting, for he had a craftsman's eye for precious metals and stones, and knew he had not worn this one before—he would have remembered it, it seemed too drab for the hand of a king, an unremarkable gold band. But his attention was not held long by the king's pedestrian taste in jewelry.

"That's good, because I won't give you a single trinket from what is mine," Thorin said.

Thranduil put his hands on his knees, eye-level with Thorin, and seemed to be listening very closely, before finally giving an incredulous look and sinking back onto the throne, giving in to fits of laughter.

Thorin watched the paroxysms take him, deciding the Elvenking was quite mad. As a king himself, he knew the old saying that the manner of the king reflects the kingdom, and thought of Mirkwood, rotting and foul on the inside. So, it seemed, had followed its king. He would pity him in other circumstances, but it was hard not to take offense at the moment. "You mock me," he said bitterly.

"I? I do not mock you," King Thranduil said. "All of fate mocks you!"

Thorin stiffened, and set his jaw, refusing to let this disgraceful display assail his pride.

"What is it you want, little king?" the Elvenking said, either madness or mockery in his voice. "Your jewels, your gold, your home under the Mountain? Go then, take what is yours, if you can. And I will keep what is mine and precious to me. Does that satisfy us both?"

Thorin regarded this suspiciously. "What of my companions?" he asked. He wouldn't leave them here to rot.

"Take them, please, and whatever food you can carry, it is less than you would eat if you stayed, and a bargain for me."

As strange as he found this, Thorin could not well look this gift horse in the mouth. He still had far to go before Durin's Day, and the faster he made it out of this mad king's rotting lands, the better it suited him.

"Tell it to me again," Thorin said. "Don't leave anything out."

They were safely out of the Elvenking's lair, though 'safe' was not a word to be casually used for Mirkwood even in daylight. An elf had led them back to the Road and they were on their way once more. He did fear elves might be spying on them even yet, but this was a story known to them no doubt anyhow, and hearing it could not wait.

Bilbo went over once more how he'd had a magic ring and the Elvenking had caught him and taken it from him, and then, at their prodding insistence, went back over how he'd found the thing and bested Gollum. Thorin, Balin, and several of the other dwarves all listened with keen interest.

"Why didn't you tell us you had a magic ring before?" Thorin asked, a bit injured. It seemed to him a betrayal of trust.

"I..I don't know, I really don't," poor Bilbo sputtered helplessly. "It…it had a power over me, is all I can say. I was quite fond of that dear old ring, yet somehow I feel relieved now that it's gone…funny, isn't it?"

"Not a laughing matter," Balin said gravely.

"It was for that mad elf king," Thorin said. "He went on about great treasures, and seemed almost to be testing me…he was very sure he knew something I didn't, and now I have a guess what it was. The ring you had, it was very plain, wasn't it?"

Bilbo nodded. "Yes, just a smooth gold band, nothing on it."

Thorin and Balin exchanged meaningful glances, then Thorin shook his head. "Couldn't."

Balin stroked his beard. "Only one of the Great Rings of Power was ever unadorned."

"Don't leap to conclusions. It was a magic ring, yes, that much is clear, but likely one of the minor works, a mere foray into the craft…it may have even been forged by dwarves, it would explain the great pleasure he took at my ignorance to my own treasures," Thorin grumbled.

"Pleased enough to let us go with supplies as though we were gnats?" Balin pushed.

"I never said he wasn't mad to begin with. The other elf rulers, it is said, have Rings of Power; Thranduil was always insecure about seeming to keep up with them in shows of wealth and power," Thorin said.

Balin gave a nod, his white beard wagging, and said no more for the time being, evidently considering himself overruled. But as they went on, they passed more of the spiders of the type that had attacked them…only these lay dead, curled up on their backs on the forest floor.

They paused to stare at the carcasses warily, several of the dwarves gripping their weapons, but the spiders were quite ex-animate, though they didn't have a mark on them.

Thorin looked at Balin, then to Bilbo. "Perhaps you'd better tell it again," he said cautiously.

But Bilbo fidgeted under their gazes, and didn't start his story over. "I don't know what it is you're thinking, but my ring couldn't do a thing like that. If I could kill spiders with it, I would have done so when we were being attacked, I wouldn't have had to fight them with Sting. It…it was a precious little thing, but not all that powerful, all it ever did was make me invisible." He paused. "You said he was wearing it when you saw him? That doesn't make sense, maybe it was a different ring. I couldn't control it, just put it on and–poof–invisible!"

"I don't like it," Balin said.

"Neither do I," Thorin agreed, "But…surely Bilbo's explanation is the only sensible one here."

They continued on, more subdued and cautious, until Kili gave a cry that he'd sighted enemies. A company of orcs was approaching, led by Azog. Once again they all drew weapons, and Thorin glanced about the treetops for any sign of elves following them, but if they'd come along to spy they were no help now–which would be exactly like an elf.

"Shouldn't we try to run and hide?" Bilbo whispered in Thorin's ear. "They might not find us in this thick wood."

"They've seen us already. If we're to fight them, I'd rather do it on the Road than scattered in the wood to be picked off by who knows what else."

"And perhaps elves still guard their roads," Balin said.

"_That_ I would not count on," Thorin said. "The last time I waited for Thranduil's aid…" but he cut himself off, drawing his focus back to the approaching orcs. They certainly weren't in any hurry. If he hadn't known orcs better, he would have taken it for a funeral procession. They moved slowly, dragging their feet, heads down like scolded children. Thorin desperately wondered if he'd chosen wrong, if they would have been safe hiding early, if he'd perhaps doomed his company by telling them to stand their ground.

The orcs' heavy feet stomped nearer and nearer, and seeing Fili making to attack, Thorin put a hand on his shoulder. "Let them rush at us," he hissed, "and when they do, Azog is mine, understand?" He felt sure the orcs _would _make a strike at them, sooner or later, yet felt somehow unsettled by their seeming lack of aggression. Azog was a hated enemy even more than any orc, yet it still sat wrong with Thorin to strike a foe without threats or taunts, without even _eye contact_.

The procession reached them, and Azog was in striking distance, his great pale scarred mass towering over them. Thorin would never admit to his own hands shaking, but he noticed those of some of his company did. Azog finally came to a halt, and turned to give Thorin a look of absolute hate mingled with some frustrated impulse. His great warg, walking at heel, stopped with him, and turned to stare at them with slavering jaws. Yet stopping seemed to cause Azog distress, and resentfully he continued walking.

Most of the orcs had weapons in hand as well–they looked ready for a fight, if not relishing it. The truce between them seemed to hang by a thread, Thorin's company preferring to avoid battle because it seemed likely to come at a high cost, and Azog's compelled by some unseen force to continue without delay. If a single arrow had been loosed on either side, they would have surely fought to the death, and though he had long desired revenge against Azog, Thorin was glad that they didn't.

When the last orc had passed, Bilbo let out a loud breath. "What _was_ that?" he asked. "He looked at you like a cat seeing a bird through a window."

"He must have had orders," Thorin said.

"Think about who could give orders to Azog the Defiler," Balin said, his voice quavering. "He has only one master, or had."

"And I know your theories on that," Thorin said, "and they say the Necromancer is in Mirkwood, do they not?"

"Perhaps," Balin said dubiously. "But I do not like this."

"Nor do I," Thorin said, "but we've had unexpected blessings twice today, thrice if you count the spiders. I do not think we should push our luck."

"If Azog has found a new master," Balin said, "that can only mean one thing. This may be bigger than any of us, bigger than Erebor."

"And if it is," Thorin said, "What do you propose we do? If it is _that _Ring, if he is…what can we do?"

Balin said nothing.

"It…it wouldn't be that anyway," Thorin said, struggling to pull this back into reason. "It couldn't–not in the hands of Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End," he said, with a slight laugh, as if drawing a nightmare into the light of day. "Our Bilbo is no Dark Lord."

"If you're sure, Thorin," Balin said.

But Thorin wasn't sure. He gripped Bilbo's shoulders. "Anything else you remember about that ring…a sense of evil, or…"

"You're leading him."

"I'm not leading him, it's important to know."

"I…I really don't know," Bilbo said, stumbling through the words. "I did sort of feel as though I was being watched, sometimes? But no, no, it wasn't like that. Nothing evil, like you're saying."

"You said you felt relieved, before."

"Did I? I don't remember. Well, if I say I felt something evil, would we go and get it back? I would feel better with it in my pocket again."

"I don't know if that's possible, Bilbo," Thorin said wearily, releasing him. "But…you don't think it was evil?"

"Not evil, not exactly," Bilbo said. "It only felt…very precious, somehow, for all it was a plain little thing. Oh, my poor old ring, as if that king didn't have enough finery and jewels."

Thorin was silent a long moment, considering. "If it was that Ring…if it was…we'll know before long, won't we. It'll be quite a storm that's brewing…and our people are vulnerable like this, a strong breeze could scatter us. I would rather we were safe and protected when this comes, if it comes."

Balin nodded. "If it is Sauron, he and Smaug will be allies before long. This could be our best chance with the dragon."

"And doubtless that's why Gandalf saw fit to help us. He knows more about the Necromancer than he says, though I doubt even he saw _this_ coming, if it…" but Thorin trailed off and shook his head. "Gandalf has no great love for dwarves or our homes, or he would have helped long ago. But he's afraid what Smaug may do."

"As are we all, I think," Balin said.

Thorin glanced over his shoulder, back in the direction of the Elvenking. "I doubt we'd even get so far as through his doors if we did turn back, and if…well, if the impossible and worst has happened, it seems forward is still where we can do the most good. Onward, then?"

"Where you lead, I'll follow, Thorin," Balin said.

"And I!" Kili chimed in, and the rest soon after. Most of them had been listening in fear and wonder to this discussion, and Bilbo wasn't the only one who'd flinched at the naming of Sauron.

Just as Bilbo was about to repeat this chorus of agreement, however, Thorin cut in. "You're a good soul, and far from home. I know you've signed a contract, but…things may have just become a lot more dangerous. I won't hold it against you if you turn back now."

"What…Thorin," Bilbo said, caught off his guard. "Are you angry with me?"

"No, Bilbo. Maybe later I will be, but…I'm trying to look out for you."

Bilbo smiled. "You always have. And that's why I want to see this through with you. Besides, I don't fancy going back over the Misty Mountains alone. I'm probably a lot safer sticking with you."

"I don't know if you'll be saying that by the end, but, I am glad of your company just the same," Thorin said.

They continued on, and Thorin did not speak of the true reason in his heart he had to go on to Erebor while he could. Fighting Thranduil would be perhaps no more or less impossible than fighting a dragon, whether he had the One Ring of Power or not, but…if their fears were right after all, far-fetched as they might seem…well, then, it was the end of the world and they were all going to die. Faced with that, Thorin knew one thing down to his bones.

If he was going to die, he wanted to die at home.


End file.
